


these shards we picked up on the way

by zimtlein



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Abusive Parents, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Character Death, Complicated Relationships, Drinking, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Implied Sexual Content, Mentions of Cancer, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Parent Death, Self-Worth Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:02:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28616238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zimtlein/pseuds/zimtlein
Summary: It was a cold November night when Chloé got the call.It is a bright December night when she meets someone familiar in New York.
Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Chloé Bourgeois, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug (Minor), Audrey Bourgeois & Chloé Bourgeois, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 33





	these shards we picked up on the way

It’s not good etiquette for pretty young women to stumble into a bar, aimless and with shaking hands. It’s not good etiquette for pretty young women to swallow down something that could have been tears, or plain anger as they order a whiskey on the rocks, the most expensive one the place offers. A run-down venue, and the bartender looks at Chloé as if she has lost her marbles. Well, maybe she has. She doesn’t care about reputation, at least not this time. She only cares about the glass that is put in front of her. Her father always taught her to relish the taste, to let the liquid slosh around in her mouth, to let her tongue be drenched in foreign aromas before enjoying her drink thoroughly.

She swallows down the whiskey like water.

The only thing keeping her sane is the burning fire in her throat climbing down to her stomach. Her phone’s display lights up again. Another call. Like the ten others from this day, she declines it. Text messages she doesn’t read. She loosens the scarf around her neck, shakes out her hair. Tries to breathe. Breathe, breathe, one second after the other, but it hurts, it hurts, oh god –

She orders a cocktail. “Anything with enough alcohol.”

“Pretty girls like you shouldn’t fuck themselves up like that.”

“Bartenders like you shouldn’t have such a big mouth, or they’ll lose a well-paying customer.”

At least her voice comes out the way she is used to – snappy, sharp, accentuating the burn of alcohol as she drinks down her cocktail. The bartender doesn’t look at her anymore. And that’s all right. She doesn’t need anyone to look at her. She only needs to be, just _be_ , however that is supposed to work.

Living is hard, she realizes. Sometimes more so than other times.

She scrolls through her Instagram feed. Passing glances at perfect photos. They aren’t even her friends, none of them. All of them were added because her mother –

Her _mother_ –

Chloé wants to choke on her own breath. She almost chokes on her cocktail. It’s so strong she is already feeling dizzy, a funny buzz accompanying the low music. Fuck this. Fuck all of this. It almost becomes amusing, but in truth, it’s just sad.

She opens one of the text messages.

Sabrina, of course. Sabrina. Asking how she is doing. Who the fuck cares how she is doing? Not Sabrina, at least. Chloé can do without courtesy, and she smashes her phone back onto the counter. Doesn’t flinch when someone sits down next to her, too close to be an accident.

“Hey.” A low voice.

“Fuck off,” she returns without looking at the guy.

A second of bashful silence. She lifts her phone to her eyes again, if only demonstratively. Whatever. He can stare at her all night if he wants, and he’ll still get nothing more than her middle finger right into his face. So when he continues talking, she rolls her eyes.

“You’re getting drunk on your own?”

“Yes, and I don’t need company.”

“Sure? Seems a bit sad.”

“Yeah,” she drawls, still looking at her phone. “Just like your ugly face.”

A grumble, the sound of movements. “Bitch,” he whispers under his breath before leaving her be.

Whatever. She has heard worse.

Photos of her old classmates. She has no idea why she never unfollowed them. Maybe because it was just polite. Maybe because her therapist smiled whenever Chloé mentioned any one of them. Stupid therapist. Stupid, dumb her. With her stupid talking and her stupid ways to make Chloé think about stuff she never, ever wanted to think about.

Like why her friendship with Sabrina fell apart.

Like why she needed someone like Sabrina in the first place.

Like why she is here right now, getting drunk on her own while the bartender doesn’t even grant her one sympathetic look anymore, while stupid American guys stare at her with a mixture of disgust and concealed interest, while her phone goes off once again, showing her another stupid text message.

This time, she pauses. An Instagram message from someone that actually doesn’t want to make her puke her guts out in a matter of seconds.

_Chloé, hi. I heard you’re in New York right now?_

She hesitates. But she’s already had enough alcohol to make the whole world just a bit more colorful than it actually is, and not giving a shit, she raises her phone and takes a picture of the bar’s logo, adding its general location.

_what u doing xoxo_

_Are you out with friends?_

_nope, just me and some cocktails xoxo_

She feels ridiculous, so utterly ridiculous that she empties her cocktail at once, finishing off the taste with the handful of peanuts served with her drink, and the reply almost has her laugh out loud.

_I am, though. I’ll send you the location. Have a drink with us_

Just like that? No more than a few messages? Whatever. Who cares? She certainly doesn’t. Not anymore. She leaves money on the counter, pulls the coat over her shoulders again. Scarf flying around her figure as she passes groups of people. Nobody stops her, and she wouldn’t care if they hissed swear words behind her back. She won’t be there anymore to hear them.

Busy streets, people everywhere. The whole world blurs before her, blurs into traffic lights brightly illuminated by melting snow. Flakes sinking down on her, sticking to her face and her hair. There’s no coldness. There’s only the pull, the urge, and she opens an app to find the location. Something expensive, of course. Something noble. She never expected anything else, because people like them, they never change.

Her therapist would frown at her right now, but her therapist is in Paris and Chloé is not, so what does it really matter?

Chloé doesn’t need a taxi when her clicking boots carry her over the pavement. Her heated face is hit by breezes. There must be someone laughing down at her. Laughing at her. Life can be so cruel when you expect it the least. But then, she arrives at the place, and after taking a glance at her, the bouncer lets her in with a faint nod.

If there’s one thing Chloé can do, then it’s keeping up appearances.

A wink of fate, no more than that – or just something she should have thought about first. But by then, it’s too late, and her eyes search for blonde hair. Find it in the form of a man her age, just as handsome as he always was. Chloé isn’t dumb, though; she remembers that one day his smiles darkened just a bit, even though she never quite understood the reason.

For now, it doesn’t matter. For now, he stands up from his seat, and the alcohol rushing through her veins makes the moment so much more meaningful when he approaches her. The same polite demeanor as always, so it’s her who has to stretch out her arms.

“God damn it, Agreste. Look at you!”

“And look at you,” he returns, laughing. Arms wrapping around her as he hugs her close. “Chloé. Wow. How long has it been?”

“Five years. I counted.”

“Five years! Man, we’re getting old.” He lets go of her, that pretty smile still on his lips. Even through her hazed mind, she realizes that he must have drunk quite a bit. It’s actually relieving, not being the only one making a fool of herself. “Let me introduce you.”

He switches to English as they get closer to his table, gesturing at the four men sitting with him. All of them equally handsome. Equally up to a standard Chloé is used to.

“These are the creatures you may or may not call my friends.”

“What a charming gentleman!” one of them laughs. “Just like always.”

Adrien grins at them. Lists their names. Mundane ones. No one stands out to Chloé. Not a single one of them. Easily forgettable, and when Adrien tells them her name, they collectively grin.

“So,” another one of them says. “He told us you two are childhood friends?”

“Yup.” Without a second of hesitation, Chloé sits down next to them, slipping out of her coat. “Adrikins was the worst playdate partner ever. He never even touched my beautifully crafted sand cakes.”

Adrien’s eyes are full of laughter as he looks at her. “My rock muffins also got rejected, you know.”

“Of course they did! They were abysmal.”

“Adrikins,” a black-haired one repeats. “That’s cute.”

“Aw, Adrikins, huh?” The one next to Adrien pokes his shoulder, and ducking his head, Adrien shies away with a little smile.

“Chloé, hm?” Another one of the them says. “You seem familiar, somehow.”

“Bourgeois, isn’t it?” the black-haired one chimes in again.

Chloé freezes. Odd silence follows. She grits her teeth. Doesn’t look at Adrien. Clenches her hands to fists, loosens them, leans back. Tosses her hair over her shoulder, legs crossing and eyebrows shooting up. “So? Who dares buy a Bourgeois a drink? Chop-chop, I don’t have all evening.”

The atmosphere sprinkles into hesitation. Just for this evening, there’s nothing to grieve and nothing to mourn. The unsure looks make her want to scream, and Adrien comes to her rescue.

“I’d suggest Arnaud de Berre,” he tells her in French.

“I’d suggest brandy,” she returns in French, challenging him with a glare alone.

“Bold. Brandy it is.”

Despite the soft undertone, he never drops the easygoing smile. Chloé has never been more grateful.

It becomes later, and louder, and alcohol covers them underneath a pleasant veil, making Chloé sink into a feeling of security. They don’t talk about anything of substance. All four of these men are rich and successful, inheriting their daddy’s companies and their mommy’s fortune. No worry in the world. Poor, poor them, because those blessed with fortune will never know the same pain ordinary people feel – now do they?

Chloé wants to drown in brandy and whisky, drown until no single breath can leave her lungs ever again.

One by one, handsome successful men leave them be, leave behind two pretty French people in pretty outfits. Chloé wants to laugh at the irony. She knows her words become slurry, but she doesn’t care. She knows her touches start to invade his private space, but she doesn’t care. Because Adrien always was good at pleasing people, and even knowing as much doesn’t make her feel anything.

Not pity, not remorse.

They leave the fancy bar, both swaying, arm in arm. She likes the warmth he provides. It feels like she is younger again, reliving years she let slip through her fingers. Her words flow over her tongue without her control, and snowflakes catch in her hair.

“New York, huh? You like New York?”

“Nope,” he answers with a grin. “I miss Paris.”

His eyes are unfocused, but that’s okay. Because hers are too, and being miserable together has always been so much more pleasant than loneliness. “Yeah, nah. Nothing much to miss there. Y’know, my dad lost the elections last year. Pretty funny! A bit.”

“See. Exactly what I missed.”

“Mm-hmm. And – I could talk ’bout them, you know – all those losers. Nino, and …”

“No. No, but thank you.”

She nods. Maybe she’ll never understand. Maybe she doesn’t have to.

They don’t need to dive deep. Chloé is just glad to have someone she can lean on, someone comforting. It doesn’t matter that it’s Adrien. It could have been anyone she knows. Anyone she didn’t fuck things up with. She feels the buzz of her phone, but that doesn’t matter. She’d rather stroll down New York’s streets, bask in the senseless lights of countless bars and billboards. She’d rather have Adrien drag her to tiny side streets, showing her mischievous smiles and insignificant secrets. Snowflakes on her eyelashes. She blinks them away, feeling dampness on her cheeks.

He attends business school, he tells her.

She tries to survive, she returns.

By doing what?

Well, not dying.

He doesn’t laugh, handing her the burrito they ordered. It tastes so good she wants to cry. So she does. Then she apologizes. And then she laughs. Because her boots leave footprints in snow, and her mind is flying, and her body doesn’t feel like her own anymore.

“You heard the news, right?” she asks, and knows the answer before he utters it.

“Everyone did. She was an icon.”

“A bitch.”

“Harsh,” he says, but doesn’t look taken aback. She’s glad. Salsa sauce drips down her fingers, and she tries to catch the drops with her tongue, but she’s drunk and it’s cold and she doesn’t care and the rest of the burrito almost slips from her fingers.

Adrien holds her wrist. Smiling at her. Rescuing her.

“Lost most of your gracefulness over the years, didn’t you?”

“Shut up, Agreste. I’m tipsy.”

“We had a bill of two hundred dollars. Y’think that’s being tipsy?”

“Who cares?”

Certainly not them, these rich happy kids, right? Right?

Their food eaten, their drinks gone, snow falling. It’s December, and it should be beautiful. A park. Its name doesn’t matter. Side by side, nothing to question, nothing to ask; Adrien became a familiar stranger, and there’s nothing else to it.

“Will you kiss me?” she asks him.

Didn’t expect anything. Just another game she can play. But his grip doesn’t loosen, and his head dips towards her until his cheek lands on the crown of her hair, and they become slower as the world keeps turning. “You don’t have a boyfriend?”

“You don’t have a girlfriend.”

A rejection wouldn’t have hurt. Being given in to doesn’t feel good. They stop in the middle of a snowy night, and she doesn’t have to think about anything. It’s nice. The buzz in her ears, her own shaking breath, it’s so nice she wants to stay like this forever.

“You want me to kiss you?”

She shrugs. “I wouldn’t mind.”

He shrugs too. “I wouldn’t mind either.”

They look at each other. So passionlessly. Nothing to gain. His arm still around her, a gesture he could share with anyone. She wants to lean into it, the taste of alcohol still lingering in her throat, pushing up, sour and making her shiver and –

She pushes herself away from him and barfs right into white, pure snow.

The morning greets her with the sound of rumbling, and with a bed she isn’t familiar with.

Chloé groans. Memories of last night flash through her mind, becoming hazy again. Her head is killing her. Her mouth is so dry that her swollen tongue can hardly move. Slowly, carefully, she slides out from underneath the blanket. Keeps sitting at the edge of the bed. Tries not to die on the spot.

Her purse is on the floor. She is wearing the same clothes as the evening prior. At least she is granted that much. Because, honestly, sleeping with Adrien would have only been another sad milestone. Searching for warmth in anyone’s arms just so she isn’t alone with herself.

She drags her hands over her face and reaches for her purse. Her phone shows so many notifications she can’t even properly scroll through them, but that’s no wonder. Giving it no attention anymore, she shuffles towards the door, catching sight of herself in the mirror hanging right next to it.

She looks like she was dragged right out of hell. Messy hair, messed-up makeup, and damn, her mother would throw a fit.

Good for Chloé that she can’t. Not anymore.

She opens the door. A nice apartment. Of course it is. The smell of coffee. Adrien glances up from the kitchen island, looking ever so handsome in his simple T-shirt and his simple sweatpants despite the dark rings underneath his eyes. Her gaze falls upon the couch, blankets still tossed over it, and she gives a loud sound.

“Please don’t tell me you slept on the couch for me.”

Adrien’s lips form a grin. “Sorry, couldn’t sleep next to that drunk person smell.”

“Oh, fuck off.” She sinks onto the stool next to him, lets her forehead meet the counter. “Make yourself useful and bring me some coffee.” Her own tone makes her flinch, and she clears her throat. “Please.”

“Woah. Chloé and manners. An odd pair. Milk? Sugar?”

“Black. Thanks.”

She listens as he gets up from his seat, as the coffee machine makes a loud noise. Next to her, her phone buzzes once again, and she glances at it. Expecting to turn away in a matter of seconds.

She doesn’t. Because that name on the display –

“Shit, shit, fuck,” she mumbles, nervous hand hovering over the display before being retracted again. “Oh god. Oh shit.”

“What?” The cup of coffee clatters as it is put in front of her.

“Ugh.” She almost feels like crying as she slumps further down. She could have stayed silent, sure, but then again, what does it really matter? “My dad is suing some doctor, and he told me to meet our attorney today.”

“Is that why you got that drunk last night?”

“You got drunk too, so screw you and your moral high ground.”

“At least I didn’t throw up.”

“Fuck you too.”

Seconds of silence. When he talks again, he sounds careful and gentle. At least she can hide her face behind her crossed arms still.

“Is he suing the doctor who treated your mother?”

She stays silent.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“I remember your mom’s funeral,” she whispers into darkness.

“Me too.”

Another few seconds of silence. Slowly, she dares look up again. Adrien is looking out of the window and at New York’s busy streets. People everywhere. Not that different from Paris. It just makes it harder. The one thing New York didn’t have was Chloé herself, and the one place her mother was rather at was anywhere but where she could be with her family.

“How did you do it?” she asks.

“Do what?”

“Go through with it.”

Adrien shrugs, still not looking at her. “I was seventeen. Didn’t have much of a choice.”

“You could have run away.”

“Sure. You could, too.”

“Sure.”

So that’s that.

She takes a sip of her coffee. Tries to feel anything at all. She doesn’t know if she is angry. Maybe she is. Maybe it’s the kind of anger sitting deep inside you, waiting and lurking and only coming to light in the darkest of moments. She puts down the cup. Expensive porcelain, because of course an Agreste would own nothing less. A reputation to uphold. A way of life he got used to, and she did too.

“I don’t think the doctor did anything wrong,” she says, because there is nothing else left to say.

Soundlessly, Adrien looks at her, his expression neutral. No false sympathy, and no endless promises that it will be better soon. Some scars stay forever, after all.

“He’s not a magician. She’s lucky she survived for three years straight.”

He doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need him to.

“Such a fucking joke. Cried about her goddamn boobs like some little kid. Fuck that. Is her cleavage more important than her goddamn life?”

“I’m sorry,” Adrien says quietly.

She squints at him. “I don’t need you to be sorry. Did you need anyone to be sorry when your mom was buried?”

The insensitivity of her words hits her just a moment afterwards, but before she can take them back, he gives her a tiny smile. “I actually did, yeah.”

Chloé nods. Massages the bridge of her nose. “Because you had a mom who loved you.”

“Your mom didn’t love you?”

“Fuck, no. She hated my guts. And I started to hate hers.”

“I never knew. I’m sorry.”

Again. She doesn’t need pity. She got enough from others. From Sabrina, suddenly texting her as if nothing ever happened between them. From Marinette, sweet cute Marinette with her stupid questions and her stupid invitations. From people that call themselves her friends, even though all they do is leech off her.

God, she is so tired.

And her phone buzzes again.

“You don’t want to meet that attorney?” Adrien asks.

She sighs. “No, I don’t.”

“Then don’t.”

And if he isn’t right.

Chloé stopped caring so long ago. At least that’s what she tells herself. So she takes up Adrien’s offer to have dinner at his. Until then, she sleeps in her hotel suite, her phone muted and her thoughts finally shutting up in her state of drowsiness. There’s no need to think about how furious her father must be as he tries to prove something to a woman that is long dead. He doesn’t need the money. Maybe he just needs the anger, the satisfaction of stomping all over someone, anyone, anyone at all.

She can at least understand that much.

She showers. Puts on some makeup. Sees papers lying on her desk. She isn’t nearly finished with her eulogy. In fact, she didn’t even start. She got the call at the end of November. Shortly after her last therapy session. There was no chance to see her therapist before being shipped off to New York.

Because even in death, her mother taunts her in any way possible. Stating in her will that she won’t be buried anywhere but in her true home.

She hates it here. She hates the snow covering the streets. She hates that most of it will be gone in a few days anyway. She hates that even after her death, her mother makes her do things she never agreed to.

She doesn’t allow herself to cry. Instead, she leaves the hotel. No snow on pavement anymore, cleaned and tidy once again.

She isn’t surprised.

Being with Adrien is both familiar and weird. Sometimes they find into a rhythm they lost during their school days, and sometimes she is reminded of how distant they actually always were. But still, there’s something soothing to watching him as he prepares their lasagna. He radiates a warmth she searched for, year after year, and she finds herself easing into his presence.

Lighthearted conversations as she strolls through his living area, her glass of red wine in her hand. Inspecting the paintings he owns. Expensive ones, of course. Courtesy of his father, he explains. She snorts at that, courtesy of once again arriving at conclusions – she at least knows that feeling – feeling so small and insignificant.

There are some photos on a pinboard next to the bedroom.

Chloé didn’t notice it before. Photos of the men she got to know yesterday evening. Photos of other people she doesn’t know, beautiful young women among them, their smiles pretty to look at. And photos of their old classmates. Nino, Alya, Marinette. His ex, Kagami. Even one of Adrien and Chloé, posing with bright smiles on their faces.

She frowns.

“You remember that one?” His sudden voice behind her makes her wince, but she doesn’t turn around. “I think it was in eleventh grade. When we went on that trip to England.”

“I remember. It was kinda fun.” She takes a sip of her wine, if only to grant herself a few seconds of quiet. “Didn’t think you’d still have pictures of all of us.”

He comes to a halt next to her. The smile on his face seems sad. “Well. Some things you can’t forget.”

“None of us ever got it, you know.” Her voice becomes smaller and smaller. “Why you just vanished. Just like that. Kind of an asshole move.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not the one you should apologize to. Know who was devastated most? Marinette, crushing on you for years. Left her standing there like some idiot.”

It takes her a moment to understand just how uncalled for her words are. Whatever went down between them is none of her business, after all. But she refuses to be ashamed, and she refuses to look at him, instead watching her red wine swirl in her glass.

“Is she with Luka again? He was really fond of her, after all.”

No anger, no surprise. Regret. So much. Chloé understands. “Gosh, no. They’re friends. That’s all.”

“I see.”

“Shit,” Chloé mumbles, taking a bigger sip of wine. “You actually liked her, didn’t you?”

He keeps smiling. It’s answer enough.

“And then you bolted, just like that? What, got cold feet?”

“It hurt too much,” he answers. “It hurt too much to know she forgot about me.”

Chloé blinks in confusion. “She never forgot about you. What are you talking about?”

“Not everything. Only parts. The parts that mattered most.”

She squints. “You had a fling while being drunk, and she had a blackout?”

At that, Adrien actually laughs, a small and trifling sound. “Worse. Much worse.”

She doesn’t get it. Adrien doesn’t seem willing to tell her any more than that, though. Before she can ask, he turns away again, returning to the kitchen area.

“I’ve got some brandy left. Want some?”

“God, no,” she returns. “Still got a brandy trauma. I should have never gotten drunk with you. A nightmare.”

“Was amusing to me, though.”

“Whatever, Mr. Perfect.”

He snorts, leaning against the kitchen counter as he takes a sip of his wine. It’s the first time she really allows herself to regard him more closely. The man he grew into, a frame that compliments him. His black shirt just form-fitting enough to accentuate his muscles. A pose that speaks of his confidence, of knowledge regarding his pull on others.

He’s warmth, and familiarity, and for the first time after the disasters that were her loser ex-boyfriends, she thinks that burning her fingers yet again wouldn’t be that bad a consequence.

“You’re still modeling, aren’t you?”

Adrien lets the rim of his glass rest against his lips. “I am. Why? Saw me on a billboard?”

She pointedly draws up an eyebrow. “Looking at you, that’s not hard to guess, really.”

His smile tells her enough.

He serves dinner with carefulness, with an eye for what makes a homemade meal just special. It tastes just as amazing as it looks. She groans around the first mouthful of lasagna, and when she notices his almost excited expression, she has to hold back a snort.

“What?” she brings out between her chewing. “Want me to praise your cooking?”

“You wouldn’t be the first one.”

“Then my lips stay sealed.” She smirks at him. “You should be grateful I was even willing to give it a try.”

He laughs. “Who are you? Gordon Ramsay?”

“I won’t apologize for my high demands, thank you very much.”

It’s easy to be with Adrien. He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t look at her with pity. He treats her like a normal human being. Everyone tries to be so nice, so understanding, but no one can listen. No one can understand how it feels like to love your mother so much you hate her. No one can understand why their last phone call was in March when Audrey died in November.

It’s easy to speak about a hurtful truth with him.

“Did you write a eulogy?”

The question was thrown in between harmless joking, and Adrien looks up from his plate, eyes boring into hers. She isn’t ashamed to ask. She isn’t ashamed to reach out for the last anchor left.

“My father didn’t want me to,” he says. “Told me it would be too painful for me.”

Chloé nods. Starts digging through the remainder of her dish. “Did you think so too?”

“Honestly? I wanted to write one. I wanted to talk about her.”

“And you didn’t?”

“No. Not at her funeral.”

Chloé nods again. “The funeral is in two days, and I still didn’t write it.” She sighs heavily. “Stupid fucking eulogy. My mother can’t hear it anyway. Why should I pretend to be sad and mournful and all that crap?”

“Aren’t you?”

She doesn’t know.

At her silence, he shrugs, chewing on a mouthful of his food. “It can bring you some closure.”

“I’m in therapy because of her.”

It slipped out, hard and painful. Nothing to be taken back. Chloé suddenly feels like crying. Bawling her eyes out like a little baby. She didn’t feel like this in such a long time that it almost scares her, and she quickly sets down her fork.

“Not that it’s – I’m not ashamed.”

“I was in therapy too,” Adrien tells her without batting an eye. “Until my father decided the therapist wasn’t good enough for me.”

She stays silent. Sips her wine. Finds that the taste doesn’t calm her down. Not anymore. “I sometimes feel like I’m talking in circles with her. That it doesn’t help. Did it help you?”

“I don’t know. I was there only three times. I really don’t know.”

“I almost quit after my second session.”

He nods slowly. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but what exactly are you talking about with your therapist?”

“My mother. Mostly her. Always her.” She sets her glass down again. “That narcissistic piece of shit.” She rakes a hand through her hair. “That bitch who made me doubt myself, hate myself, hate my friends, hate my dad, hate my life, hate what would become of me, hate my boyfriends, hate my school, hate Paris, hate the whole fucking world. Who wriggled her way into every tiny aspect of my life. Who got cancer and pretended to be so strong, so ready to fight, while her daughter was crying the whole fucking time. Not once caring about me. Not once.”

Tears sting in her eyes. She takes a breath. She stares at her lap.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t unload on you like that.”

“It’s okay,” he says, warmly and gently and oh god, all that she ever wanted. Just one nice word, just one nice gesture, just someone to hold her. Someone to love her. God, someone to love her unconditionally, someone who would never avert their eyes from her with disgust. Someone who would think her worthy.

Will she ever be worthy of anything?

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, pressing a hand against her eyes. Laughing quietly. “Oh my god, this is so utterly embarrassing.”

“It isn’t.” The sound of his stool being pushed back. The sound of steps. The feeling of a warm hand between her shoulder blades, and she almost sinks into herself fully, almost wants to hide from the whole world. “I know what it feels like.”

“You don’t,” she rasps, leaning into his touch at last. “Your mom loved you.”

“And she still left.”

Emilie Agreste, vanished and found dead. No story to tell. Audrey Bourgeois, succumbing to breast cancer. A fashion idol forever mourned. Chloé doesn’t know if it would have been easier. Losing her mother all of a sudden. Leaving no answer, only questions. Chloé doesn’t know, because the answers she got are still ripping her apart. She doesn’t know where she begins. She doesn’t know who she is. With her mother’s death, a part of her died, and she doesn’t know how to bring it back.

She bursts into tears, being caught in warm arms. A luxury she never had before.

“Do you really not like it here? You don’t like New York?”

“No. It’s not my home.”

“Not even with your friends?”

“Well. It’s not that simple, you see.”

“Then come back. Get even with Marinette. Get in touch with Nino. Look, they miss you. They won’t be mad for too long.”

“Sounds so easy, right?”

It really does.

She organized the funeral. Her father was too weak. She made the calls, made sure to have the right people involved. Only closest family, closest friends. Maybe she should disinvite herself in that case, Chloé jokingly thought.

Then she cried.

People heard, because of course they did. Sabrina heard, because of course she did. But every time Chloé thought about her, about the ugly, ugly truth – how Chloé was no more than the perfect copy of Audrey, treating someone who needed affection more than anything like shit – she wanted to throw up.

People heard, and it’s no wonder they are texting her. Pity and remorse and “how are you”s and she’d like to throw her phone into the trash can, burn it, see it turn into useless garbage – before one of the messages catches her eye.

_hey. you still got those headphones I lent you once?_

She furrows her brows.

_no idea what u talking about_

_my headphones. the blue ones._

_no luka i don’t. go bother someone else_

How insensitive does someone have to be? In the middle of writing her eulogy, and still being stuck on the first word – and Luka dares ask her something that trivial?

He calls her.

She doesn’t pick up.

He calls her again.

She is so annoyed her nails clack angrily against the display as she texts him.

_are u stupid i’m in the us right now!! ever heard of roaming fees_

_pity. call me back._

Like hell she will.

She stares at the empty paper before her. She could write about the truth, sure. How her mother fucked her up. How she built a version of Chloé that isn’t genuine, that is some weird mixture of expectations, of craving, of a little girl asking for love and never receiving it. She’s pathetic. Chloé is pathetic, and her mother was a monster, rearing its head in the ugliest moments.

She doesn’t want to be glad that her mother died.

She just wants to cry.

So she calls back.

Luka picks up almost immediately, and Chloé has to hold back a sob. “I don’t have your stupid headphones.”

A second of silence. “Are you sure? Because I can remember –”

“Why would I even want your fifty-euro headphones? They are crap, I bet you.”

“Well, they were a bit –”

“And why the fuck are you texting me about your fucking headphones when my mother’s funeral is tomorrow, huh?”

Silence. Of course.

“Do you have any idea –” She jumps up, starts pacing. “Any idea at all, how it is …” Her voice breaks. “Luka, I can’t even write her freaking eulogy. I can’t.”

“Then don’t.”

She holds back tears. She’s so pathetic, so unbelievably pathetic. “You say that so easily, huh?”

“Don’t go to her funeral.”

She chokes. “Are you kidding me?”

“Do what is right for you, Chloé. You deserve it.” His calm voice, and she almost sobs again. “Marinette can’t stop talking about you. She is really worried about you too, you know.”

“As if I care.”

“We know you do.”

Asshole. She screws her eyelids shut for a second. “I’m fine, okay? I’m fine. I’ve got someone here, and he’s kinda helping me, and I’ll get that stupid funeral over with. God damn it, Luka, you and your stupid ploys.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

She swallows. Doesn’t show how much it moved her anyway. “Thank you.”

The snow has melted. Only smallest mounds of dirty white remain. Chloé kicks iced snow away with her boots, sips her coffee. “I still don’t have a eulogy. The funeral is tomorrow.”

“So?” Adrien returns.

“My dad will be pissed.”

“Your dad isn’t even in New York right now.”

That’s true.

Christmas songs and Christmas lights. She knows when exactly Emilie vanished, and the soft sadness on Adrien’s face is understandable. He caught her, so she’ll catch him too, hooking an arm around his.

“Maybe you could come back to Paris. Take over your dad’s business. Become all professional and stuff, owning your own company.”

Adrien laughs, leaning into her touch. “That’s the plan, actually.”

“Oh. So you will come back to Paris?”

“Or I set the main operation point to here.”

“Don’t. Paris can’t stand to lose a pretty face like yours to New York.”

He grins, wiggling his eyebrows. “Are you flirting with me, Chloé?”

She lets go of him, taking a sip of her coffee. “And what if I am?”

“Flattering.”

But –

The “but” never follows.

Aimless steps, aimless conversations. It’s easy with him, and it’s kind of sad. Losing someone leaves scars, settles into smiles and words. Chloé was a horrible person, she knows she was. Until the age of twenty-one, until the diagnosis was told to her over the phone, her mother sounding completely unfazed and terrified inside, and all Chloé was left with was emptiness.

Her mother dying – really, nothing much changed.

Her mother dying – it never really felt like she was in Chloé’s life in the first place. So she couldn’t leave either.

It took her so much time to realize. So, so much time wasted on doubting everything that should be her. Doubting parts and pieces.

A fool. She’s nothing more than that.

They sit down on a bench. The middle of a park she doesn’t recognize. At least not the one from their first night together. Chloé leans her head back, her cup emptied. She never smoked, never dared to, her mother’s bickering voice a constant presence never leaving her alone. Now it’s silent in the back of her mind, and lonely, and she longs to have something between fingers, to be able to pretend there’s something she’s doing, something that calms her screaming nerves.

“Is my father invited?”

She doesn’t look at him. She should have expected the question from the start, and she didn’t. Because after all – what is more important than her own pain?

Of course. Because she’s the same monster her mother always was.

“Yeah,” she says. “Couldn’t not invite him, or my mom’s ghost would have haunted me forever.” She gulps, playing with the empty cup in her hands. “Sorry.”

“I understand.”

“He declined, though.”

A moment of silence. Then, a laugh. “Yeah. Sounds just like him. Not even caring for the one person who made him successful in the first place.”

She wants to avert her gaze from the truth. It’s too late, though. “Maybe he’s grieving too. In his own way.”

“By closing himself off from everyone. By not even paying respects to someone he owes so much to. Yeah, like I said. Sounds just like him.”

The bitterness is familiar. A tremor of anger to hide what really lies underneath. Broken apart, running and running after something they can never have. Chloé feels small. In the face of everything, she is nothing. A blue sky above her, but the snow is long gone.

“Were you scared?” she asks quietly.

For whatever reason, his arm is around her. For whatever reason, it feels good, but not right. Still, loneliness is worse than the feeling eating at her heart, and she leans into the touch.

“When?”

“Before your mom’s funeral.”

“I was.” Cheek leaning against Chloé’s head. “Because for years, my father didn’t talk about her, and suddenly – it seemed like he gave up on her. Just like that.”

“And you did too?”

A little fleeting breath. “I gave up hope when I was fifteen. That she’d ever come back, that is.”

It took two more years until her body was found, until reports piled up – brain damages, or not, additional injuries, or not, contradicting autopsy reports, conflicting testaments – and in the middle of it all, a teenage boy was trying to grieve; and in the middle of it all, Chloé wondered if she would even care if the same happened to her mother.

Back then, she thought the answer was yes.

“You do miss her, right?” she mumbles.

“I don’t know. Sometimes it almost seems …” A pause. When he continues, his voice seems guilt-ridden. “Sometimes I can’t even properly remember her face.”

Chloé reaches for his hand, grips it hard. “Doesn’t make you a bad person.” An ingenuine grin. “Believe me. I know what I’m talking about.”

“You aren’t a bad person.”

“My mother made me one.”

Adrien returns the squeeze of her hand. “Is that it? Aren’t we more than the products of what our parents made us?”

She swallows. She wants to retract her hand, but doesn’t. Her heart aches. She was a bad person, and in parts, she still is. She doesn’t know how to get out of this. No one ever taught her. She doesn’t know if her parents could have. But if she can’t put the responsibility on them, then it all gets stuck on herself.

Being responsible for herself is so terrifying.

Being more than a mere victim in a grand complot is so fucking terrifying.

It’s the truth. The painful truth, spoken with a gentleness only Adrien could possess. It’s a truth that makes her want to curl up. It’s so easy to think of her mother as nothing more than a monster, hurting others without batting an eye. Chloé always reacted with anger when her therapist suggested just that: that people are complex, and that bad sides are part of them as much as good sides.

Fuck that. Fuck her good sides. She never had any, and Chloé is her spitting image, trying to equal her like the idiot she just is.

“I’m pretty glad I never ended up like my father,” Adrien continues. “The world doesn’t need another Gabriel Agreste.”

She tries not to choke. “How did you do that?”

“Not be like him?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re asking questions,” he mumbles, his cheek still leaned against her. “I don’t know. I just did it.”

She’s weak, and pathetic, and no more than a little girl craving love. She doesn’t have the same strength Adrien has. She can’t even think about her dead mother’s funeral without shivering like crazy. She clutches his hand harder, tries to hold onto something, anything.

“Chloé, you did change. From what I remember from five years ago, you did.”

“You think?”

“You’re trying your best.” Tender fingers running through her hair. “Maybe that’s enough.”

Enough.

When was she ever enough? When was she ever good enough, or perfect enough? When did she ever hear such words? From her therapist, making her burst into tears every single time, sure. But that is different. That is so different, and she sits up, burning her fingers on fire as she cups his cheek, leans forward, and kisses him.

Adrien gives a surprised sound, arm still around her shoulder. She thinks about being embarrassed, but honestly, she isn’t. So she keeps their lips locked. Warming them with her own. It’s more gratefulness than passion, it’s more calmness than wildly beating hearts, and she almost wants to cry when he kisses her back, arm tentatively wrapping around her.

It takes seconds until she backs away, looking into green eyes. A handsome face drenched in soft understanding. He brushes hair from her face. It could have been a sign of gentle feelings if she didn’t know better.

“Will you come to the funeral with me?” she asks.

He blinks. He laughs. “What a romantic proposal.”

“I know. Aren’t I creative?”

“You really are.”

“You don’t have to, though.” Her hand is still on his cheek. She lets it sink down. “But I don’t know how I can do this on my own.”

“The press will be there. They might suggest we really are dating.”

“We tell them we’re close friends.”

He smiles. “That’s what you want?”

“That’s not what you want?”

But they both know enough anyway, even as Adrien softly kisses her again.

_Dear mother,_

_I never thought I’d see you go like this. I always thought you were invincible. A woman with so much power, one who could rival death itself. Even when you got the diagnosis, I thought you’d power through it. Not even stage IV could do you any harm, I was sure._

Cameras in front of the building. Chloé’s sunglasses are covering her eyes. She takes it step by step. Next to her, Adrien is a warm presence, rubbing her arm when she almost stumbles over her own feet. He looks handsome in his suit, and she looks ridiculous in her black dress. Black isn’t her color. She doesn’t want it to be her color. Relatives greet her, asking for her father. Her coward father curling himself up in his room instead of being here.

People have their reasons, she supposes.

_It got better, and it got worse. I got a therapist. She told me things I never wanted to admit to myself up to this point, and she suggested talking to you. You remember what you did the first time I tried to be vulnerable with you? You called me a dramatic, idiotic brat and left me standing right there. I cried for the whole evening. I cried myself to sleep. My image of you shattered. It was the first time I realized what an awful person you really are._

The casket in the front of the room. Chloé can’t move. She doesn’t want to see it. She remembers the rounds of treatments. Chemotherapy made her mother’s face slightly swollen, made her so thin she was only skin and bones. A dead woman walking alive. And then, there were periods when she gained weight, when she seemed like she could take on the whole world. She was only vulnerable with Chloé when she was miserable, and even then, she wasn’t. And Chloé isn’t sure which version she liked better.

None of them.

She doesn’t go up to the casket. Instead, she clutches Adrien’s arm, sinking down in the first row together with him.

_I wonder who I would be without you. I wonder who I am. You broke me. You always made me feel like I was insignificant and small. You always told me what I think, what I feel, and I was just a little girl. I wasn’t strong enough to ever question you. You remember that evening when we both got drunk, and you told me I was never wanted in the first place? That you never wanted children, because they are exhausting and ungrateful? You don’t remember. You deny it all, especially when asked. But that’s okay. I know who you really are now. What you really are._

People send her sympathetic looks. People give her their condolences. She doesn’t need it, none of it. She doesn’t need to cry. Adrien leans closer to her, asking her if she wants something to drink, or something to eat, and she shakes her head. She sits straight, legs crossed, quivering hand in Adrien’s. They might look like lovers, but in truth, he is the only true friend she needs in this moment.

_You didn’t care about me. When I graduated, I overheard you talking to my dad, telling him you’re so glad you don’t have to take care of me anymore. And you know what? Fuck you. Fuck you for making me feel like this. Fuck you for making me hate myself as much as you hated me. Fuck you for telling me that even your brain metastases couldn’t hurt you, the strong woman that you were. Fuck you for not once showing me that you were scared, that you were only human. You weren’t strong, mom. You were pitiful. You could show no one love, because you had no love left in you._

It’s a blur. Chloé feels like she isn’t even in her own body anymore as the first eulogy gets read. One of her mother’s closest friends in the fashion industry, another designer. Beautiful, tearful, speaking of all the good parts her mother possessed. Bullshit, Chloé wants to scream. Or just another truth, another part of her whispers. Maybe there is more to a person than a single experience. Maybe she just was unlucky to be in this position, being a daughter to a woman who couldn’t have done better than that, no matter how hard she tried.

It hurts.

_The worst part is, I still love you. You are my mother. You are the one woman I looked up to, who I hoped would love me back someday, somehow. Maybe if I dressed better, or were more careful with my makeup, or read your stupid fashion articles. Maybe then. None of it helped, though, but I still loved you. Even when I started to hate you, I loved you. It hurts so much to lose you. It hurts that I will never be able to tell you the whole truth, even if you wouldn’t have listened anyway. It hurts that no matter what I do, you will never love me back, especially not now that you are dead. I don’t know if I will ever get rid of that twisted version you made of me. And I will never be able to show you who I really am._

_Mom, I think I won’t miss you. And I think I will. And that’s the worst part._

She crumbles the piece of paper in her hands. Wants to rip it to pieces, but Adrien’s hand on hers stops her. He gives her a sad little smile, and she can’t smile back.

The pastor calls her to the stand. Her whole body freezes up. She can’t bring out a word, so she shakes her head, Adrien’s presence next to her giving her the strength she desperately needs. She ignores confused looks, ignores everything until the pastor moves on.

_I blocked your number in March. I didn’t want to hear your voice, and I didn’t care that you’d die soon. I don’t ask for forgiveness, because I don’t need it. I don’t need anything from you anymore. You have no power over me. I will always wonder why you could never give your child the love it needed, but I will survive. Because, mom, if there’s one thing you left me with, then it’s the ability to power through anything._

_I can at least thank you for that._

Tears and weeping everywhere. Chloé stays strong, head held high. A wooden casket sinking into earth is all that is left of the once so powerful woman. Chloé presses her teeth against each other. Listens to the pastor, stares at the gravestone so hard she can’t make out the letters anymore. In the back of her head, she can almost hear her mother’s taunting voice echoing on and on.

A beautiful, sunny December day. Just another piece of irony, and before the funeral is really over, Adrien and she slip out unnoticed. A path over the graveyard, through a gateway, being greeted by lonely greenery. The unspoken eulogy still in her hand. Dripping with words that will never be heard, with hate that will never be dealt with. They search for the most secluded place, find a little trash can.

She read it to Adrien numerous times. She cried the first few times, and then she felt nothing. She felt tired. She felt free. She felt caught forever. So she rips the paper to pieces, rips letters apart, tears at it until it’s nothing but shards of a past she can leave behind. Like snowflakes, white pieces of paper rain into the trash can, forever buried and forever forgotten.

“I’m proud of you,” Adrien tells her, voice heavy with tears she doesn’t allow herself.

For the first time since forever, she can smile without wanting to run away from herself.

“Thanks. Me too.”

It takes seconds for her to break down crying, and it takes nothing at all for Adrien to catch her from falling.

Calls and texts from relatives. They only care when it’s convenient. They only call to keep up pretty appearances. So Chloé doesn’t care. She’d rather concentrate on the red wine in front of her as their glasses clink against each other, and the pleasant veil of tipsiness makes her return Adrien’s smile.

“You’ve got a lot of friends here, don’t you?” she says.

“You could say that. I lost touch with some of them. Others, I’ve been friends with for five years. Most of them are pretty okay for American folks.”

She grins at that jab. “I can imagine. Exhausting?”

“Sometimes,” he laughs.

“Was one of them your ex?” she asks unbashfully, making him raise an eyebrow.

“Who?”

“Those photos on your pinboard.”

“Oh. Yeah. The brunette one. Mary. And the blonde one, Lucia. And, uh, the other blonde one, too, Loretta. And –”

“Damn it,” Chloé interrupts him. Laughs. “A heartbreaker.”

Adrien’s smile turns a bit sheepish, then a bit sad. “I stayed friends with them. Lucia was the only one who couldn’t stand me after we broke up.”

He doesn’t need to say it. That behind searching for feelings and for warmth, there was always the feeling of regret. That he knows the ugly truth anyway, but facing it is something else entirely. He doesn’t need to say it, and she doesn’t need him to acknowledge it. So she touches his leg with the tip of her boot, tilts her head in a manner she always knew her exes liked.

“You have a thing for blondes,” she concludes.

He looks at his glass. Looks at her, head tipped down the tiniest bit. Shadows dancing over handsome features, and just like she knows about her own appeal, he must know about his. Because appearances always were important to both of them, and it’s difficult to shed your own skin without feeling like being ripped apart.

Familiar climes. It’s safer, and easier.

“Me too,” she says.

He grins. “Even though you were flirting with Luka like crazy at our graduation party?”

With a groan, she retracts her foot, rolling her eyes. “I was drunk, he was with Marinette, end of story. She already forgave me, okay?”

“You apologized?”

He looks genuinely surprised. She would almost feel offended if she didn’t get it. “It only took me three years. And a drunk argument in which she almost slammed my face against the table. But yeah, okay, I did apologize.” She rolls her eyes again. “Anger issues, clearly. She almost pounced on me when I suggested therapy, though. Even if I was really serious. Stupid Dupain-Cheng.”

“You’re friends.”

Again, that surprise in his voice. She snorts. “I’d call us frenemies, but okay.”

“How did that happen?” Glimmering green eyes, a mixture of genuine interest and something akin to fear. She doesn’t know if he really wants to hear it, or if it would be better to keep quiet. She chooses the first option.

“I tried to be a better person. She noticed.”

“That’s,” he swallows, looks away, “that’s just like her, huh?”

“God, you do like her still.”

He winces. “Don’t know. I don’t even know if I’m the same person as back then.”

“You are. You are even more than that.”

“Even more, huh?”

“Yeah.” She looks at him, the smile on her lips feeling foreign and warm. “Helping out a brat like myself? That’s what I call being a good person. I’d even start looking up to you, Agreste.”

He chuckles, fingers pressed against his glass. “You’re not a brat, though. You’re just you.”

“Almost sounds offensive. Thanks.”

“Wasn’t meant that way.”

“Swear to it.”

He looks at her, raises his glass. “I hereby solemnly swear I would never insult you knowingly, Chloé.”

“Sounds like a lie, though.” She clinks her glass against his. “Prove it.”

“Prove that you’re a woman worth desiring?”

Husky words. A line that has long since been crossed. Maybe it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that her display lights up, showing that Luka sent her a message, asking how she is doing after the funeral. It doesn’t matter that she blocked her exes without a second thought. It doesn’t matter that some feelings are so hard to capture, that she remembers that one summer night when Marinette smiled at her, telling her that relationships end for a reason, that she nodded inside, that Luka’s name slipped into the warm night. It doesn’t matter that Chloé stared at Marinette’s lips for a second too long, that confusion gripped her heart until she wanted to choke on her own hasty breaths.

Among hate and chaos and swirling feelings, finding herself became the scariest thing she ever faced.

It’s a bit sad, a bit liberating. It’s a bit like sliding closer to your childhood friend, fingers digging into his scalp before you taste red wine on his soft lips. It’s a bit like knowing it won’t mean anything, and everything at once.

It’s evening when they get home. It’s evening when Adrien presses her against the door and keeps kissing her. Conversations turn to breathless murmurs as he undresses her, hands searching and finding, and it was so clear from the beginning that Chloé doesn’t find it shocking, nor surprising; they laugh at their clumsiness, and they kiss with the longing of two people searching for simple comforting warmth.

He’s talented, and careful, and god, if she could, she’d fall in love with him right there and then, fall so hard she would see stars.

She doesn’t.

They lie next to each other afterwards, his bed carrying his pleasant scent, and her cheek leant against his chest, she scrolls through Instagram. Snorts at the photos she finds of Adrien and herself at the funeral, hand in hand. “Of fucking course,” she mumbles. “See? According to the media, we are an official –”

A name on the display. Someone is calling her. She’s not the only one who inhales sharply.

“Fuck,” Chloé mumbles. “I forgot.”

“Really now?” Adrien’s laugh sounds unsure. She moves away from him, sits up, leans over her phone. The blanket slides from her naked chest, but she doesn’t really care, staring at the display in panic.

“Look, she had another boyfriend, but things ended after three months again.”

“But –”

“You really think that girl would crush on you for five fucking years just to forget about you in the blink of an eye?”

Adrien’s face falls. “But … It’s been years.”

“Yeah, it has. So, do you still have feelings for her?”

He doesn’t answer, but his expression says enough.

“For fuck’s sake,” Chloé mutters, takes a breath, and picks up. Puts Marinette on speakers. “Hi, what the hell do you want?”

“What the fuck, Chloé?”

She sounds close to tears, and Chloé rolls her eyes. “What? Use your words, Dupain-Cheng.”

“Use my words? You didn’t tell me – really, Adrien? Don’t tell me – were you having some distant relationship thing you never cared to tell me about? We haven’t seen him for years, and now you’re holding hands with him?”

“Do you own him?”

“Of course not! That’s not the point, Chloé! I trusted you!”

Honestly, that does hurt. Chloé exchanges a quick look with Adrien who looks just as helpless as her. She raises an eyebrow, nodding at the phone. His eyes widen. He shakes his head urgently. Suppressing an annoyed groan, she turns to the phone again.

“We aren’t dating. We just met coincidentally, and he accompanied me to the funeral. Because I’ve got no one else here.”

Seconds of silence. “Oh my god, Chloé. I’m sorry. You’re right, the funeral – I’m sorry.”

“Now don’t get sappy on me after you attacked me like some mother hen.”

“I – how are you doing?”

“I’m still with Adrien right now.”

“Oh.” Marinette clears her throat. “Oh. That’s nice.”

Again, Chloé glares at Adrien. Finding him staring at the phone, the expression of sorrow hardly erasable from his face. He never looked at Chloé like that, and he never had to. She knows the kind of craving he must be feeling, but in his case, it’s easily fixable.

She pushes the phone in his direction. He looks up, still panicked. Wordlessly, she tries to convince him, and he finally has the good sense to take the phone into shaking fingers.

“He wants to talk to you,” she says before getting up, picking her underwear from the floor and slipping into it. Listening to the shrill “What?” Marinette gives. Endless seconds, and Chloé is already at the bedroom door, sweaters in her hands as she opens it.

“Hi, Marinette.” Adrien’s voice full of sheepishness, of tenderness, of pretty feelings dancing through pretty words, of a yearning that could never be smothered.

“Adrien,” and she mimics his tone.

Some things can never be fixed. But luckily, some things can.

It takes over half an hour for Adrien to emerge from the bedroom, handing Chloé back her phone as he joins her on the couch, her eyes on the TV without really watching whatever is going on there. She doesn’t comment on his reddened, swollen eyes. Instead she opens Instagram again, staring at the display and unable to concentrate on any photo at all as she speaks up.

“So, when are you gonna come back to Paris?”

His laugh sounds almost tired. “I don’t know if I can.”

“Oh, come on,” she huffs. “She’s single, you’re single. Make use of it. Don’t be a coward.”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“Is it?” She keeps scrolling through uninteresting pictures. “Whatever she forgot – did she do something bad? Did she hurt you, and now conveniently pretends that it never happened?”

“No. God, no. She did something courageous. Something incredibly courageous.”

What a drama queen. She almost wants to laugh. “Well, then tell her. Remind her.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“Maybe it is that easy. Or is there any secret law preventing you from doing so?”

She didn’t expect an answer, so his pensive tone is somehow surprising. “I don’t think there is.”

“See. Maybe we just complicate things because we’re scared.”

Another laugh. A peck on her cheek. She tries not to blush as she looks at him. Adrien won’t ever give her the true depth of unconditional love, but he can at least give her a comforting smile and a comforting touch, and for now, that is enough.

“You really became a strong woman, Chloé,” he tells her.

She smiles back. “And you became a charmer. No wonder Marinette fell for you.”

A glimmer in his eyes. “When does your flight go?”

“Tomorrow, around midday.”

“Already! I think I’ll have no choice but to visit you over the holidays, huh?”

“I guess so. I bet you can’t even remember what Paris looks like during Christmas time.”

“Hardly.”

“See. It’s kinda sappy, but also kinda pretty.”

The rest of the night is spent laughing, and talking, and they grant themselves the occasional kiss. Only for tonight, and only to express the gratitude lingering in their hearts, knowing that in truth, his whole being already belongs to someone else.

And Chloé – for now, she only belongs to herself.


End file.
